Someone Please "Card" Me!

I had a fake ID made when I was a senior in high school so I could be 21 and of legal drinking age. There was always someone who knew someone who had a friend who could either alter your driver's license or make some form of identification with a new date of birth. That sure was tricky and I probably drank and partied too much for my age. I was a little nervous when I was asked for my fake ID but tried to stand up straight and avert my eyes. I also wore a lot of make-up to appear older. Ha! When I could finally drink legally I thought it was great when I was carded because I looked too young to have a cocktail. One of my happiest days was when I was 30 and the bartender at the "Red Onion" in Los Angeles asked to see my driver's license. I wanted to marry the guy!

It seemed like a long time from 21 to the day the letter from AARP arrived inviting me to be a member. I shook and turned a pale shade of green holding the envelope in my sweaty hand. "Are they kidding? I can't possibly be a member, I didn't look AARPish," I thought as I ran to the nearest mirror to check. Nope still didn't look a day over 41. There was no way I was joining. I ripped up their literature for years rejecting the notion that it was a club in which I was eligible or wanted to be a member. That was until I realized I could get really good discounts with an AARP ID. The cheap side of me over-ruled the age phobe I had become.

Now I would do anything to be carded. Why is it no one demands an ID when I ask for the "senior" discount? There's not a movie theater in a 2,000 mile radius that wants to see if I'm really a senior. They just happily dispense a ticket without saying "Can I see your driver's license?" I walk away sad and drag myself to the cheap seat. The "senior" age varies depending on the venue so sometimes I really am lying. I want to yell "I'm not 65! I'm cheating! Can't you tell? Wanna see my driver's license?" But no one does.

Please, you don't have to marry me, just "card" me.

"No No Anything but the Car Keys!"

Happy 90th birthday Dad. He turned 90 even though he's been telling people for the last three years he's 90. He's the only person I know that lies in an upward direction. My Mother has been tweaking her age as long as I've known her. Rumor has it she has two drivers license with different ages. Knowing Mom she might even have more than one birth certificate. She's a trickster. I've followed faithfully in her footsteps since I was 40. Until 40 I bragged upwards every year as people never thought I looked my age. Thirty was a breeze - no problema for this girl. "Yep I'm 30 and I don't give a damn," was my attitude. Then along came 40 and I went into hiding right after the birthday cake. "I can't possibly be 40," I would cry myself to sleep. My friend Bob had to do an "age intervention." He dragged me out of bed to go drink.

I didn't give Dad a present yet because he returns all gifts, even pastries ,which I thought he couldn't bring back, but found a way. But I will say that the very best gift he received was from the Department of Motor Vehicles of Illinois. Ya gotta love their generosity. The DMV re-newed my Dad's driver's license for his birthday. Yea way to go! Now my present to everyone who lives near Dad is telling them to stay home and off the roads. This includes all the folks who like to shop at Nordstroms and Neiman Marcus because he drives my Mother there a lot to shop. Why don't we take his keys away you might ask yourself? We did and even sold his car but when no one was looking he tricked us and went out and bought a new one. He's crafty.

The worst part is I know the day will come when my son is standing in front of me requesting the car keys. "No anything but the keys!, I'll scream clutching them in my hand and running or by then crawling out the door. Take my good china that's never seen a morsel of food, my silver which is still in the tarnish proof packaging, my Tiffany wine and champagne glasses, but not the car." I'm sure he'll be gentle and consoling as he chases me down the street bribing me back with cab fares or a bus pass.   Will I hand them over? You bet your sweet ass I won't. So Dad on your 90th birthday all I can say is "run!"

A First Time for Everything

There's a first time for everything. Some first times you forget and some you never forget. I was thinking recently about my first kiss. That first kiss had so much potential but so little promise. He was darling and a year ahead of me in high school- yes I was behind the kissing curve because I am not counting any form of "spin the bottle" in sixth grade. Or Jimmy Adler's attempt in 3rd grade or BillyTauber's in 2nd. Nope my first kiss was tall, had dimples and I think a slightly cleft chin. Doug was very cute and more importantly popular which was a big deal. He drove me over to his house after school and we were out by his swimming pool (did I forget to mention rich?) and we were standing very very close when he leaned down and kissed me right on the lips. Let me take you inside the bubble over my head "Huh? This is kissing? Ewwww, bad." Thankfully I wasn't discouraged and went on to kiss again.

I have no recollection of what my first word was but knowing me it was probably "help." If I spoke more than one I have testimonials to the fact that they were most certainly "feed me, buy me." The first time my Dad took the training wheels off my bike and ran down the street holding on to the back of the seat while I steered and screamed ended abruptly when I tipped over to the right. I did however learn on the fourth , fifth or tenth attempt. I distinctly remember my first day of school because the bus driver couldn't find my house to bring me home and being four I had no idea where I lived. I never again liked school.

Adulthood brought firsts all over again. College produced one of life's biggest - sex. I will never forget and then again wish I could, that landmark night. He was a graduate student in art and almost a ringer for Bob Dylan. I stalked him for week as I decided he was the cool older mystery man I needed. It happened in his apartment over the local laundramat , which wasn't very romantic but I had to get the virginity noose off from around my neck. Like kissing I had the same "huh, this is it? ewww, bad" bubble over my head . Thankfully I wasn't discouraged and went on to have sex again....but not with him.

The firsts came fast and furiously after college: job, apartment, paycheck, marriage, child, and divorce. And then surprisingly a few "seconds" kicked in: marriage and divorce. I'm into the "thirds" stage of my life but at least I can ride a bike.

Who Are the People in "People?"

It is shocking and deeply disturbing to admit that I no longer know anyone who is in "People" Magazine. I used to actually look forward to reading it in line at the grocery store. What better and cheaper way to pass the time behind someone whose cart is piled to overflowing than grabbing the "People" off the rack and finishing it before it's your turn? It was so entertaining that I didn't even start screaming and crying when folks pulled out coupons which took 30 minutes for the check-out girl to decipher. I loved a crowded grocery store. I also actually looked forward to the Dentist as God love him he keeps his subscription to "People" current. I have spent many happy hours in his waiting room catching up on back issues. I even read them between Novocaine shots. Of course "People" magazine was a secret vice as I never ever confessed that I read it. I've been known to put it inside "The New Yorker" to protect my image. Don't ask what "image" - it just makes me feel better to think I have one to uphold.

Now I open the precious magazine and turn page after page after page and think to myself "who are these people?" I have no idea. Apparently they are famous but I have to ask myself , where , why, and how? It scares me that they are in movies and videos I've never heard of or seen. The "announcement" page makes me dive for the Kettle One or consider driving off a cliff as the people in the "birthday" paragraph are half my age. I could be everyone's Mother or worse Nana! Again I ask myself , who are these people and why don't I know them ? Where are the stars I used to love? Faye Dunaway come back darlin' I need you. Make a movie or music video with Harrison Ford so I can sleep at night.

I won't even start on the music videos I have never seen by artists whose names are just two letters both being consonants. Thankfully I know Lady GaGa but might have just spelled it wrong. I bet she's happy her Mom made her take piano lessons. I also hope Justin Bieber reaches puberty soon or he should seek medical attention. Mick Jagger come back to me but please stop having children with women younger than your other children.  Sadly I now stand in the grocery store line or sit in my Dentist's office tempted to pick up the "People" but knowing it will only serve to remind me that the pages are filled with stars who could call me Nana.

I Am Not a Bar Loser Anymore

Pick- up bars were never my idea of a way to spend an evening. If I did go out with my friends to a bar I brought a book because men never cozied up to me. I was brunette. My girlfriends were blondes. They got all the attention and I was shoved out of the way on the race to get to them. So there I was the lone brunette with my head down reading. This actually was ok with me because I never took "bar speak" which I think consists mostly of monosyllables. I didn't develop the fine art of idle chit chat. My lightest subject was films by Truffaut. I was alone a lot. Every once in a while a guy would ask me what I was reading and I'd look up long enough to say "I love Salinger, do you?" Conversation over. Bars made me nervous and sweaty.

I spent no time between college and the present going to bars to meet the opposite sex. Unfortunately being single again after two marriages I find myself facing that option. My skills however remain back at bringing reading material. Now it's mostly the New York Times which in an area as conservative/Republican as Palm Desert, CA leaves me alone on my bar stool. I am also still brunette in the land of blondes and relatively flat chested in a sea of cleavage. I made a brief attempt at becoming partially blond and buying a push up bra but apparently didn't fool anyone because I got a lot of reading done. I resigned myself to the fact that I was a bar loser.

Saturday night my lonely bar life changed. I went to "The Nest" in Palm Desert known for being the hottest, oldest and most raucous pick-up place in a 100 mile radius. Yep I'm talkin' old, as the male demographic is probably 60-95yrs. Honey, those 95 year olds loved me. Every bad toupee looked my way regardless of my brown hair and lack of cleavage. Even the comb overs were winking at me. I walked by a man who was asleep at a table and he woke up to check me out.  I had no time to read or talk about foreign films as I was getting hit on from every direction. My head was spinning. I danced with a man who just had a knee and hip replaced ; he was a real trier but unsteady and might have broken my little toe. I think a guy in a multi-colored sweater tried to sell me a cemetery plot but it was so noisy I could hardly hear him. I'm not exactly sure but I could have sworn I saw a man come out of the bathroom juggling a bottle of Viagra but it could have been Prevecor. The joint was jumping. I went from bar loser to the big time in no time.

I might go back but first I have to get my toe x-rayed .

I Paid $38 for a Dinner Roll

I hold a world's record. Yes proudly and sadly I hold the world's record for the highest price ever paid for a dinner roll. Not a Picasso, Monet, or Warhol but a puffy slightly stale white roll. It cost $38.00. I'm broken, bankrupt and still hungry. How could something like this happen to the cheapest woman alive? I went to a single's mixer. I have no idea what I was thinking or my better judgment was temporarily corrupted by the outlandish notion that someone would ask me to dance. It was called for 6:00 at a local country club. No one in their right mind arrives at a party at the exact time it starts right? I was born and raised on the "fashionably late" side of life. I surmised my eta should be 7:00. I shaved both legs, wore a fabulous little black dress and whobbled out of the house in my raspberry red Kate Spade high heels for the big event.

Always read an invitation carefully, which of course I didn't. Upon arrival I noticed the woman selling tickets was wearing a cowgirl outfit. "Oh no, was this a theme party?" I cried. She said it was a Texas Hold-um shindig but as I looked into the room thankfully no one was in western gear. I also noticed no one was standing up or mingling, just sitting sedately at tables talking amongst themselves. "Excuse me, but where's the party?" The women pointed to where I was looking. I was tempted to inquire if someone had died before I arrived which cast a pall over the group. I paid the $38 admittance charge asking one last time if I was headed in the right direction. She nodded. I felt ill. As I walked through the room I was certain I was at a wake. These can't be my "peeps" I cried to myself. Btw all the women were blond with life threatening cleavage. Was I in "The Twilight Zone?" "Rod Serling get out here and change everyone back."

I desperately needed a drink and headed to the bar. I plopped down next to a man sitting alone at the far end and quickly pulled out the pen and paper I had brought as a security blanket in case no one talked to me. It was time to write and drink. I spent another $8.00 for the house wine because the $38 didn't cover drinks. I determinedly headed over to the buffet because my ticket had to buy me something. Nope, don't eat meat so the hamburgers were out, as were the greasy acne causing french fries. The fried flattened chicken pieces were looking greenish so ixnay that food group. All that was left was a basket of dinner rolls. I picked one up and placed it on my giant plate. Slightly weak from hunger I walked back to the bar. It was now 8:00 and the room was growing empty. "Wait, I just got here, don't go," I thought about yelling. "I even shaved my legs!" I queried the man next to me who explained everyone arrived exactly at 6:00, mingled at the bar for twelve minutes and then sat down to eat. I think I burst into tears. "Who arrives on time? What happened to fashionably late? It's early and if you all go I paid $38 for a roll!" He tried to calm me down. Three people were dancing which actually hurt my eyes as I watched them. Does rhythm leave your body at 60? By 8:15 we were almost the last two standing or sitting as the case may be.

I walked despondently to my car realizing I should have put at least a dozen rolls in my purse and only needed to shave one leg.

Have You Seen My Password?

I am ready to pull my hair out, run around the house screaming or throw myself on the bed sobbing. On second thought I'd hate to ruin my hair as I just paid a fortune to get it cut. Running and screaming is a real possibility as is sobbing. What could drive me to such mania? What else - I can't remember the password for my MacBook. I felt on the verge of password insanity. I know I wrote it down on the notepad I brought to my last lesson at the Apple store. One of the Apple boy toys and I re-set my password and I specifically jotted it down on a note pad so as not to forget it. Ironically and tragically I forgot where I put the damn pad! I've ripped my desk apart three times and nada. I just tore through every compartment in my car and zippo. I did find the lipstick I was looking for however which is a relief and it is still a good color for me.

I am sick sick sick of this password world. Who's idea were all these codes? I need to blame someone, anyone,or everyone. I've tried every combination of words I can think of to get into my MacBook. It does this crazy little shimmy shake denying me access. "Let me in, it's me, you stupid little white box! I hate you!" I'm out of control and developing a nasty itchy rash on my cheek. Now I have no computer access and need a Dermatologist. Sobbing seems more and more like a good plan. I find myself longing for the days of envelopes, stamps and good penmanship.

Alas my afternoon will be spent in the bright white Apple store on El Paseo at the mercy and schedule of the boys at the Genius Bar. "Oh little brainiac boy disciples of Steven Jobs help me find my way. I'm lost again, need your guidance and more importantly your pity." I'd like to just throw my MacBook at the wall and hope that would trigger it's memory of my password. Although that would feel cathartic, I stop to scratch my rash and think better of it. Once again I am reminded of the fact that I am a computer loser. With my head bowed in dismay I tuck the MacBook under my arm and head out into the big bad world to find my password.